


scraps of kindness

by crownedcarl



Series: fleeting and fixed [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Friendship/Love, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Sexual Abuse, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 00:43:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16943775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcarl/pseuds/crownedcarl
Summary: Jughead has always known Archie. Understanding him is a whole different story.





	scraps of kindness

**Author's Note:**

> here, have jughead's pov on all the angst. not proofread in its entirety, so expect minor changes to any grammatical errors or other poor writing slash sentence structure. title from biathanatos by nicola maye goldberg

Jughead wakes on a Friday morning and knows, without question, that he’s losing his best friend.

He pulled through, last time, but this isn’t Archie leaving. He still appears in all the places Jughead expects him to be; a booth at Pop’s, beside a locker in the school hallway, his body and its burdens still existing in the here and now while the rest of him disappears, slowly, bit by aching bit. 

Talking to Archie is like talking to a character Jughead might have written years ago that’s taken on a new and strange life of its own, unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Archie can’t seem to bring himself to smile, lately, and Jughead doesn't have the first clue about how to bridge the distance between them at this point. All it does is grow, and looking at Archie feels like looking at a distant memory, distorted.

Sometimes, Jughead wants to talk to Archie. Other times, he feels like he has nothing left to say that Archie would want to hear.

-

The problem is this: sometimes, Jughead hates Archie.

He hates all the pieces of himself and his life that could have been, all these shiny, perfect longings becoming reality for Archie while, somewhere else, Jughead’s dad can’t manage to stay sober. It’s not easy, hating Archie, but it happens. Jughead sees him with Grundy and his blood comes to a simmer and remains there for days, weeks.

It’s not pretty, the anger. It takes Jughead a long time to realize it was misplaced. Blaming Archie becomes a pettiness, an inextricable pain that lasts and lasts.

If he could cut out that part of himself, throw it away into some distant patch in the woods, he would. For now, he walks away, making himself believe it’s a kindness.

-

Before Archie abandons him at the start of summer, Jughead kisses him.

It’s an impulse born out of boredom and curiosity; he hasn’t ever wanted to kiss anyone, before, so if it happens, it might as well happen with his best friend who Jughead trusts not to judge or humiliate him. Maybe it goes a little deeper than that, but Jughead just looks at Archie and realizes, not for the first time, that Archie is beautiful, moreso in this low light, red hair cast with gold, fair skin painted rosy.

Jughead kisses him like a goddamn collision, a freight train making impact with the side of a mountain, and all the while all Archie does is make a startled little noise before relaxing, lips soft against Jughead’s. It devastates him, a little, the fact that it’s so much better than he thought it would be.

Archie doesn’t look happy or mad when Jughead pulls back, reaching for his milkshake like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Archie’s expression is carefully blank, in fact, eyebrows drawing a little closer together once Jughead pointedly refuses to say anything, eventually sighing “What was that about?”

Shrugging, Jughead mumbles “Testing a theory,” and relaxes a little once Archie seems to accept that, only a fraction more jittery than usual for the rest of the night.

Jughead has always known Archie. Understanding him is a whole different story.

It occurs to Jughead, much later, that Archie has never learned to say no. It makes him want to tear his hair out, the bone-deep revelation of his own part in putting Archie on that path, frustrated tears pricking at Jughead’s eyes.

Archie wasn’t a great friend, back then, but Jughead feels like he’s committed some awful, unfathomable crime, remembering too late that Archie has always wanted to belong, desperate to fit in, remembering how guilty he had felt about that kiss, after, too cowardly to admit he’d done something wrong.

He notices other things, eventually. Archie’s hands, stiff on Veronica’s hips, like the closeness is foreign and unwelcome. This is Jughead’s contribution to Archie’s miles-long issues: a reluctance to be touched, to be held, to be close.

-

In theory, Jughead excels at knowing right from wrong, but the delivery of his angry speech to Archie in front of the Andrews house comes out all wrong, the hurt spilling past his lips from where it’s been building in his throat for months. His head isn’t screwed on right, in that moment, world narrowing down to his best friend abandoning him for someone else, for some stupid, hormonal drive to get laid.

In theory, Jughead understands statutory rape. He’s seen enough news stories about it, heard enough second-hand accounts from the Southside to be familiar with the wrongness of an adult sleeping with a child. He understands what the age of consent is for, but the thing is -

Archie has always been so goddamn lucky. Jughead doesn’t see a kid when he looks at him, and conversely, he doesn’t see a predator lurking behind Grundy’s eyes, his brain failing to make the connection of how truly screwed up this situation is. Veronica mentions a PG world and Jughead smiles, just a little, at the face Archie makes, still stupidly, awfully set on making Archie the bad guy.

Archie isn’t a preschooler being lured into a van. Archie isn’t a vulnerable teenage girl in need of comfort. Archie is tall and broad and strong; nobody can force him to do anything he doesn’t want. Jughead convinces himself of these falsehoods. Jughead lets himself be blinded.

-

Something is deeply wrong with Archie Andrews.

It takes a while for Jughead to notice. He asks Archie about Veronica, about why she seems so much more into him than he is into her, watching closely as Archie laughs, awkward and a little tense, the noise loud in Pop’s mostly empty diner. “Maybe you should make, you know, an effort,” Jughead suggests, not knowing any better. More blame gets put on Archie’s shoulders and Jughead is moronically oblivious.

“I mean, it’s not a good look to pull away when the girl you’re supposedly into tries to kiss you, man.”

Archie has a strange, solemn expression on his face. “Of course I want her,” he says, hands folded in his lap, fingers restless. “It’s just been hard. I’m trying.”

Jughead understands, now, that he sealed his status as an irrevocably shitty friend by raising an eyebrow, shrugging and muttering “Maybe you need to try harder,” and not noticing, in that moment, how long it’s been since Archie has touched him.

-

“He’s not home,” Fred Andrews tells Jughead, something weary in his posture. “Said he left to see Veronica.”

“Oh,” Jughead responds, then says “Can I come inside, for a little while?” and thanks the universe for the existence of this man, stepping across the threshold as Fred nods and opens the door a little wider. The house looks the same as it always has, homey and a little cluttered, but there’s a curious lack of belonging once Jughead settles on the couch, grabbing his laptop out of his bag.

Fred is upstairs for a while, descending softly and slowly some time later, grabbing a drink for himself and Jughead as he takes a seat in front of the TV. “You alright?” Fred asks him, and Jughead nods, offering a small smile.

As if caught by some strange impulse, Jughead asks “How are you holding up, mister Andrews, considering...well, considering everything?”

He sees a flash of exhaustion in Fred’s eyes, gone in a heartbeat, replaced by a weak, dwindling smile. “Great,” he says, hand trembling as he pops open the tab on his beer. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know,” Jughead hedges, feeling himself edging a little closer towards betraying Archie’s trust than he’s comfortable with. “Archie seems kind of off, lately. I thought maybe you’d have noticed.”

Before Jughead is really aware of it, he crosses the fragile line between concern and curiosity and quickly says “Just, you know, he might not be doing so good, after what’s happened to him.”

Fred exhales loudly, then sinks deeper into the couch. “Jughead,” he says, an undercurrent of something tight and shameful in his voice, “I think I’m losing my kid, and I don’t know what to do or how to help him. Some days, I look at Archie and it’s like someone took my son apart and put him back together all wrong. I can’t stand it.”

Jughead squeezes his eyes shut. For weeks, he’s convinced himself that Archie’s silence means that he doesn’t want to talk about it, any of it, but now he’s not so sure. Maybe Archie doesn’t talk because nobody ever asks him to. Maybe he feels like his words aren’t welcomed.

He’s been complicit in that. “I think I fucked up,” Jughead whispers, trying not to bring up the countless ways he could’ve done something to help. “Mister Andrews, I think I really fucked it all up,” and as soon as Jughead says it out loud, he knows that it’s true, that he failed Archie over and over again out of some goddamn petty jealousy and lingering anger, his throat closing up before he manages to get it all out. “He’s supposed to be my best friend, and I don’t know what to do or what to say or how to say it, and even after all of that, he doesn’t tell me to leave him alone. I don’t deserve that.”

Fred looks like he’s intimately aware of the kind of earth-shattering guilt Jughead is talking about, wiping roughly at his eyes. “Jughead,” he says, “I don’t think it’s about what we deserve, not in this life.”

His voice is muted. Jughead looks at him, desperate for some answers, some guidance, some way of making this right, but if even Fred Andrews can’t help, then what could Jughead possibly do?

“I don’t deserve to have such a great kid, you know? That was my life’s biggest blessing, getting to raise him, but he’s better than I’ve ever been. I don’t deserve him, either,” Fred sighs, “But he’s never cared much about who deserves what or who doesn’t. You know this. He never turns away anyone in need. He always wants to help.”

“But I don’t know how to fix everything,” Jughead says, “He deserves a better friend than me,” and now he’s thinking of Archie, wide-eyed under neon lights, withdrawing from Jughead’s touch, actively avoiding it.

“I know he let you down, kid. Trust me, I know,” Fred chuckles, but it’s not at all a happy sound, verging on a bitter rattle. “But he needs people. He’s always needed people, is the thing. I don’t think he understands that the people he cares about care about him, too, sometimes, and not a day goes by where that doesn’t break my heart.”

Jughead has had a lot of stupid ideas. He’s dragged Archie along for most of them, and Archie has always gone along with a measured amount of complaint, but there must have been a time where Archie said no and Jughead failed to listen, overruling his say, another person reinforcing what he sees in Archie’s eyes these days.

Jughead looks at Archie and every inch of him screams _I don’t want this body, I don’t want it touched,_ and Jughead laughs so he won’t cry.

Archie has never been able to forgive himself. Jughead sees that, now. “Do you think,” he begins, words hesitant in a way Jughead isn’t used to, “That sometimes, we should’ve done more?”

“Every minute,” Fred confesses, “Of every day.”

-

He wants to ask Archie three things.

Where does it hurt?

Here, Archie says, hand at his throat. Here, he repeats, hand across his heart. Here, his stomach.

Why does it hurt?

Because I don’t recognize this skin anymore. Because it belonged to someone else. Because I’m not me.

And, finally: how can I help?

You can’t. It hurts forever.

Jughead wakes up out of breath and deeply, shamefully exhausted.

-

“I owe you an apology,” Jughead begins, shaking his head as Archie opens his mouth. “No, actually, I owe you several.”

There’s a lost, wide-eyed air about Archie, like he’s been plucked out of a calm sleep and then deposited somewhere unknown and strange, looking at Jughead like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. His hands are moving restlessly.

“Archie,” Jughead says, a strain in his voice, trying not to make the tremble and ache of the words known. This isn’t about him. “I am so, so sorry for how I’ve been acting for - this whole past year, if I’m being honest. I don’t know how or why, but I…”

He grimaces. “I treated you like an afterthought. I treated you like you couldn’t hurt the same way everyone else hurts, and that’s not what friends do. I’m sorry,” Jughead repeats, “For being so dismissive of Grundy, for not having your back. I’m sorry about the way I stopped asking if you were alright, and I’m sorry about the fact that the way you’re looking at me, right now, like you can’t believe I’m saying this, is something I’m responsible for doing to you.”

Blinking down at the table, Jughead whispers “I’m sorry I kissed you without asking. I’m sorry I left you behind. I’m sorry for not seeing how bad things have gotten, and I’m so fucking sorry for how alone I made you feel. I’m sorry for all of it, Archie. Every last stupid, thoughtless, selfish and petty thing I said and did to make you feel like you didn’t matter.”

It boils over, all the things he should have said ages ago when it might have made a real difference in making Archie feel like he wasn’t alone, when Jughead should have offered to share his burdens, to ease the weight of carrying so many experiences all by himself. He should have done a lot more, a lot sooner, but all Jughead has are the words scraping his throat raw, not nearly good enough and arriving far too late.

“I thought,” Archie says, hunched over into himself, making himself so much smaller, “That you hated me. I know that’s not fair,” he rushes to say, like Jughead deserves any kind of absolution or forgiveness, “But...Jug, you have no idea. I feel like…”

It takes Archie time to find his words, always has. “I feel like I’m not in the world, anymore. Like it doesn’t want me. And.”

His mouth is all wrong, thin-lipped. “Sometimes,” Archie says, “I don’t want to be in the world, anymore. I want it to go away. I want to be someone else. Someone who’s better.”

Jughead puts his head in his hands, determined to stay calm, because Archie Andrews is talking about disappearing, about unbecoming, about suicide, looking anywhere but at Jughead like he’s afraid of being mocked.

I did this, Jughead thinks. I was part of this. I want to die, he thinks, for all the wrong I’ve done.

Out loud, all he says is “Archie, listen to me. Please.”

The diner is silent, but Jughead’s voice doesn’t carry, staying between the two of them like a secret, like the kind they used to have in middle school. “I love you. You are, without a doubt, the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and there is nothing wrong with you. I don’t know anyone who tries even half as hard as you do that deserves even half of the things you do, and you deserve better than this summer and everything that happened after. I love you,” Jughead says again, knowing he hasn’t said it enough when Archie needed to hear it, then sighs, “I know you don’t have any reason to believe me or trust me, right now, but I will never want to live in a world that doesn’t have you in it, and I want you to want to be in it. Archie, I want you to be alright.”

He wants to reach out and drag Archie as close as humanly possible, because this kind of love exceeds what Jughead ever thought was possible and it’s lain dormant for so long that he can’t be certain Archie would welcome it, but he’s dragged out of those bitter musings when Archie’s breath hitches and he slowly begins to cry.

Jughead doesn’t always know what to do. Right now, he clumsily throws himself out of his seat, rounding the booth to put his arms around Archie, surprised and grateful and relieved all at once when Archie hugs him in return, trembling like a newborn foal, forehead pressed heavily against Jughead’s clavicle. He used to fall asleep like that, when they were kids, sprawled across Jughead and all around him, seeking warmth.

“Hey,” Jughead mumbles, letting Archie cry, wondering how long he’s been bottling this up for, hurting beyond the point of knowing what to do with it. “Please let me help you. Please tell me how.”

“I don’t know,” Archie says, words all tangled together, “I don’t-”

“We’ll figure it out,” Jughead promises, “You and me, for as long as it takes. I swear.”

Archie’s breath is a rattling, fragile thing that Jughead clings to, holding Archie close, wishing for some way to to calm the restless and pained shipwreck of Archie’s body, but all he has is this embrace, this hope that somehow, it will be enough to hold a body that’s been through far too much, convincing it that it deserves kindness.

-

It feels inadequate, the apologies and the multitudes of them.

Jughead has received plenty of apologies from his dad, over the years, that didn’t make up for any of it. He wonders how Archie is able to accept it, his guilt, when one night and one tearful embrace couldn’t possibly make up for the countless times Jughead failed him, but Archie shoots Jughead a tentative smile during lunch, just the two of them, knees touching under the table. He feels another apology building, but bites it back.

Archie doesn’t need Jughead reminding him of how he hates to be touched, lately, so Jughead shifts his right knee a little closer, casual to Archie’s distracted eyes, their silence comfortable.

Trauma is a word Archie tends to flinch from, still skittish, so Jughead asks “How did you sleep last night, after the talk with your dad?” and trusts that Archie knows what he’s really asking - _is it a little easier to breathe, today?_

Small steps, that’s what Jughead is aiming for. As long as they’re heading in the right direction, he couldn’t care less about the pace.

A lot of things have happened between the two of them. Archie still trusting Jughead with his struggle makes something delicate rise in Jughead’s chest, staring at Archie as a sudden, tender thought strikes him: he’s loved Archie for too long to forget how, even if he’s a little rusty at it. “Good,” Archie tells him, “Better than I expected, I mean. It just sucks, you know? He looks so hurt whenever I can’t just be normal and fine like I should be.”

Very softly and very deliberately, Jughead says “I don’t think there’s a manual on coping, Archie. Everyone does it differently. There’s no right or wrong way about it, so don’t worry. It won’t always be as hard.”

He still marvels at Archie’s laughter. He’d forgotten the sound, for a little while. “Alright, doctor Jones,” Archie grins, like Jughead is actually doing something helpful. “Thanks. For being here.”

It does sting, Archie feeling like he owes Jughead anything in return for the bare minimum, but Jughead lets it lie, knowing that now is not the time to sit Archie down and begin working on his self-image, so Jughead smiles and extends one earbud to Archie, saying “Don’t mention it, man. There’s this track you need to listen to, c’mon.”

Maybe normalcy isn’t sustainable in a town like Riverdale, but Jughead has learned to count his blessings. It’s a sunny day, Archie’s knees snug against Jughead’s own, and the day is far from over. Happy endings are possible, Jughead reminds himself, watching Archie smile, turning his face into the light.


End file.
